Inside the studio, Maud saw that the day’s scenes were set in the interior of the Witch’s castle. Margaret Hamilton, the actress playing the Wicked Witch of the West, was in full costume. The thick green-tinted makeup that covered her skin made her teeth and the whites of her eyes appear yellow.
Whenever they were dealing with the Witches, Maud thought, the story veered too far from Frank’s conception. He had never meant for his story to be frightening. This set was creepy—all dark grays and menacing ironwork, a crystal ball, and a large hourglass filled with red sand. A piano was pushed near the edge of the set. Maud recognized the fellow with the pencil behind his ear—the lyricist, Yip Harburg, whom she’d seen a number of times—and the cranky piano player, Harold Arlen. Maud also spotted Arthur Freed, who gave her a wary glance. Maud had given up hoping she’d get the script from him. At least she now knew he wasn’t one to trust.
Judy was engaged in a friendly conversation with the Witch, with whom she seemed to have a warm rapport, but she almost jumped when Fleming walked onto the set, her smile replaced by a watchful expression. The scene being filmed today involved only Dorothy and the Wicked Witch. None of the other actors were present. In the scene, Judy was locked in the Witch’s tower. Maud watched as the glowering green-faced character turned over the giant red hourglass and threatened the girl with her screeching voice and long-pointed fingernails. Maud squirmed in her seat as the Witch reduced Judy to tears. Of course she was acting, but there was something about her anguish that seemed too real, as if the girl’s heart was constantly poised on the cusp of breaking, so that just the slightest provocation brought her sorrow to the surface.
Since her first day visiting the set, Maud had not heard the song about the rainbow again. So her ears perked up when Arlen struck a few chords that she recognized immediately. She waited to hear the girl launch into that beautiful song she remembered, but she soon realized that this time it was not quite the same. It was only a reprise, a short snippet of the longer song, which Maud presumed must come elsewhere in the film. In this scene, the reprise started just as Judy was reaching a fever pitch of despair. The Witch flipped over the giant hourglass filled with the blood-red sand, telling Dorothy that she had only that much time to live, and it was at this moment that the piano player started up with the chords. Each time the filming reached this point in the scene, take after take, the actress, usually so poised, appeared visibly shaken. Gone was the big voice, the confidence, the sheer joy of singing. In its place was the tremulous sound of a young girl, frightened, alone, trapped in a place where the woman looking after her was not a loving aunt but the terrifying, green-faced Wicked Witch. As she sang, the piano player, who’d been improvising an accompaniment to go with her uncertain tempo, suddenly fell silent, leaving nothing but the sound of Judy’s voice quavering, then cracking, until she was too choked up to continue.
“I’m frightened, Auntie Em! I’m frightened!”
The stage, the set, the room fell away, and Maud was kneeling on a barren plain, next to a violet-eyed girl with messy braids, dabbing tears from her smudged face with a clean white handkerchief.
I’m frightened, Auntie Em! I’m frightened!
“Judy?”
Arthur Freed hurried over to the young actress, who was sobbing quietly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her nose with her fist. “I’m so sorry. Let’s do it again. I’ll do better.”
Maud sat rigidly, fearful that there might be a replay of the director’s heartless slap from the day before. But the director didn’t say anything, and Freed was all honey.
“Let’s take a break, sweetie. You’ve worked hard enough for now.” He slipped his arm through Judy’s, and Maud watched warily as he led her away.
Fleming held a hand up. “Okay, everyone. Let’s call it quits for now.”
As people started to shuffle away, Harburg, who had been scribbling notes on his pad of paper, looked up and gave Maud a friendly smile. “Hello there,” he said, approaching her. “You’re Mrs. Baum, aren’t you? I’m wondering if you would be willing to let me ask you a few questions?” Harburg was holding a copy of the script, which he folded shut.
“Certainly,” Maud said. “I’d be delighted.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that the latest copy of the script?”
“For now,” Harburg said. “It’s a—”
“—work in progress, it changes every day. Yes, I know. I’d love to take a look at it,” Maud said.
The fellow cocked his head. The stage lights reflected on his eyeglasses, hiding his expression.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Maybe we could get a bite to eat? You ever been to Musso & Frank’s?”
“Of course,” Maud said. It was one of Hollywood’s most popular writers’ hangouts. “I live just around the corner.”
“?’Round five?” he said.
“Five it is.”
As Maud was leaving, she looked around for Judy, hoping to see that the girl had recovered from her harrowing day’s performance, but the alley outside the sound stage was empty.
* * *
—
AS MAUD WAS CUTTING behind the Thalberg Building, on the way to the parking lot, a back door pushed open, and Judy all but tumbled out right in front of Maud. Her hair was mussed, and she was frantically trying to rebutton her blouse. She was crying. When she caught sight of Maud, her face flooded with relief.
“Mrs. Baum?”
“Judy?” Maud gasped. “What happened? Can I help you?”
Judy reached into her handbag, took out a bottle full of pills, shook one out, and swallowed it without any water to wash it down. She sobbed, then balled up her fists in her eye sockets, as if forcing her tears into retreat.
“He told me he was taking me to see Mr. Mayer,” Judy said. “But when we got there, Mr. Mayer wasn’t in…”
“Who?” Maud asked.
“Freed. Mr. Freed.” Now all the tears and the fluster were gone. Judy seemed kind of wooden.
“Go on.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Do you see how old I am? There is nothing I haven’t heard before—or experienced myself.”
Judy smoothed her skirt and straightened her blouse.
“Mayer has his own elevator that goes out the back,” Judy said. “Freed said we’d go out that way. As soon as we got in and the door shut…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Maud was furious.
“Listen to me,” Maud said, placing her hand on the girl’s arm. “Don’t ever be alone with him again.”
“I thought he was being nice to me.” Judy peered at Maud. “You probably think I encouraged him.”
“I think no such thing! It’s not easy being a young woman. It wasn’t when I was young, and it isn’t now. But I have a solution for you.” She rummaged around in her purse until she found what she was looking for: the small sewing kit she carried everywhere. She extracted a long straight pin with a pearl on the end.
“If a fellow gets too close and you don’t want him to, poke him with this pin. It’ll teach him.”
“My mother told me to be nice to the studio men so that they’ll like me.”
“Now, listen to me, Judy Garland. Being nice means saying ‘Good morning’ and ‘How do you do?’ But if a man tries to touch you and you don’t want him to, you say no, and if that doesn’t work, you step on his foot as hard as you can, and if that doesn’t work, you poke him with the pin. He’ll squeal—and that will give away his bad intentions.”
Just then, Ida Koverman, Louis B. Mayer’s secretary, out of breath, rounded the corner of the building. Her glasses, hanging on a beaded chain, were banging against her ample chest.
“Oh!” she said, slowing to a walk when she saw them. “There you are…”
“Ida!” Judy said, running over to the stern-looking matron and giving her a big hug.
“I didn’t realize that you were with Mrs. Baum,” she said, still huffing a little bit. “I saw you go in with Mr. Freed, and when you didn’t come out, I thought…”
“That he had used the back elevator?” Maud said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ida said. “I watch this one every day. I’m not blind. I know what goes on.”
“Don’t get on an elevator alone with a man!” Maud and Ida said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.
“It’s not easy for these girls,” Ida said.
“It’s not easy for any girls,” Maud replied.
Judy held up the hatpin Maud had handed her.
“Good!” Ida said. “And don’t be afraid to use it.”
* * *
—
MAUD SLIPPED INTO A booth in the clubby, wood-paneled interior of Musso & Frank’s at five minutes before five. A moment later, she saw Harburg coming through the door. He sat down and placed the script on the table between them.
“Not sure how much it’s going to help you—it’s very much a work in progress. Langley wrote it up one way, then Ryerson and Woolf changed it all around, Langley came back and tried to put it right, and now it’s my job to try to stitch the whole thing together.”
“But aren’t you the lyricist?”
“Lyricist, wordsmith, jack-of-all-trades. Lots of writers arguing with each other, but the songs are going to drive the story.” A red-coated waiter materialized next to the table. “Pastrami on rye,” Harburg said. “And for the lady?”